


Polycephaly

by MLycan



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: #ItsStillBeautiful Fest, Crime, Crossover, Detectives, Domestic, Hannibal Cre-Ate-ive, Hannigram - Freeform, Headcanon, ItsStillBeautiful, Johnlock - Freeform, Multi, Murder, Post TWOTL, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Wendigos, hannilock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7859989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MLycan/pseuds/MLycan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannigram vs Johnlock. Need I say more? ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wendigo's Web

**Author's Note:**

> Whether you love Hannibal, Sherlock, or both, and everything in between, I've made sure to include a ton of lore(and shipping) from both shows. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Inspired by the beautiful people of the Hannibal fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is called in to investigate the death of Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, and begins the hunt for Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My contribution for the ItsStillBeautiful Fest (which I am super super late for) hosted by the Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive.  
> Hope you enjoy!

As Dr. Alana Bloom recounted her series of ordeals, Sherlock got up and began to pace the room, occasionally pausing to glare at nothing. Margot Verger, distracted by this hyperactive eccentric’s behaviour, kept looking from her wife, to John, to her son placidly colouring sheets of paper on the coffee table, and back to Sherlock again. John, who had long since become attuned to his partner’s chaotic aura, urged the doctor to go on.

“…After hearing of his escape, fearing for our safety and that of our son, we immediately relocated here. We haven’t seen him si-”

“Mrs. Verger!” Sherlock’s curls bounced atop his head as he exclaimed, and John shot him a dirty look, “You haven’t said a word since Mrs. Bloom began. I suppose it’s easier to corroborate lies when only one is doing the telling.”

Usually John would have told Sherlock on the spot that what he had just done was not good at all. There had to be at least a gentler method of interrupting someone right before accusing them outright. But John had learned to trust Sherlock’s instincts, and so looked back to the couple for a reply. They seemed oddly unmoved. Alana almost had a smile on her face. Margot crossed her legs, leaned back in her seat and gave a nonchalant shrug.

“I’ve never mastered the art of weaving truth and lie into a seamless net the way Hannibal has,” she said, “ I’m simply washing my hands of whatever they... he will do to you when you catch him. Or rather, when he catches you.”

“You say it like it’s a simple game of chess,” Sherlock smirked.

“Isn’t it?” Mrs. Bloom said, slightly tilting her head, and Sherlock frowned. The comment struck a nerve. There was a long moment of awkward silence as the two stared each other down, before John cleared his throat and spoke, flipping through his notebook for reference.

“You said…that the victim was already in a close relationship with the suspects. Care to add onto that…”

“I said that Bedelia had gotten too close. She never did learn to keep her distance, not even when her lives had run out.”  
John raised a brow, wondering not for the first time what she meant.

“Are you saying that she was familiar with the suspects when they were active criminals?”

“Yes. She retired from psychiatry and Hannibal became her only, unofficial, client.”

“A psychiatrist’s psychiatrist?”

"And you were obviously the better escape artists, hiding in the only place he couldn't go,” Sherlock sneered, “This sanctuary is an illusion, a straw house built on borrowed time. Tell me, how much longer are you going to run before he snatches this all away, tears it down around your heads? Sooner or later you'll be vulnerable."

Margo smiled, "Monsters are nothing new to me. If we aren’t gone when Hannibal comes, we will be prepared."

Alana stood, signaling the end of the interview. "Now if you don't mind, That was all the borrowed time we could spare."

As they neared the enormous outer doors of the Lithuanian castle, the little boy ran up to Sherlock, and held up a piece of paper. Sherlock accepted the gift, but handed it to John as soon as they were inside the cab. John unfolded the paper as Sherlock began to rant.

"Just a game. And a game of chess no less. Why doesn’t she go ahead and compare the science of deduction to cluedo."

"Rubbish. They couldn’t be more different or else you wouldn't suck at one of them." he replied with a smirk as he tried to make out the drawing in the evening light. It was a pig, expertly drawn, gazing up at him with cute black eyes, but chaotically coloured, in blood red crayon. Sherlock fumed for a moment before grinning. 

"Touche. Even though the rules of cluedo are clearly wrong."

"Sure they are." John retorted, and the two traded sly grins.

Sherlock had moaned and whined when he was almost forcefully recruited to solve this case. Especially after learning that he had been referred to Interpol by none other than his annoying brother, with no warning other than a short text: “I’d rather you didn’t take this one, but you need to get out of the house.” He couldn’t even have John accompany him at the time; his blogger was often indisposed by domestic life. He assumed it would be another generic, espionage laced, goose chase for another top secret flash drive, most likely misplaced into the hands of a sheepish amateur.

But just one glance at the crime scene told him that this case was special. An abundance of local officers, Interpol agents, and even a few FBI scuttled about like sniffer dogs desperate to recover the scent. Unfortunately not one of them had made the effort to preserve the crime scene, at least to Sherlock’s standards.

The victim was Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier. She seemed to have dined with the killers, the room was extravagantly furnished and the table was set for a luxury dinner, candles and all. Her body sat at the head of the table, adorned in a black, sequin evening gown, and a black wedding veil that shrouded her face. All her limbs had been carefully amputated, and no trace of them was ever recovered. She sat head bowed over the table as if in prayer, or mourning. When her face was finally revealed, it was clear that even death couldn't mar her beauty. Silken, golden blonde locks flowed over her shoulders, framing the refined features of her immaculate countenance. Her only facial scars were dry streaks that had ran down from her eyes and over her cheeks, all that remained of the tears she had shed when she was alive. But even that wasn't what peaked Sherlock's interest, what caught him off guard. It was that for the first time in years, Sherlock couldn't find any clues.

He had combed through the crime scene over and over until the nervous police officers insisted he leave, but he couldn't find any trace of the perpetrators. No blood. No fingerprints. Not a fiber. The very dust was undisturbed. If there hadn't been three places set at the table, he would have assumed that the poor woman had done it to herself. These weren’t just professionals, but masters of the art of murder. It would be almost impossible to catch them, much less find them using evidence, because they left none behind. Contemplating the odds, Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. Finally, something dangerous.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Both Dr. Bloom and Mrs. Verger kept avoiding using 'they' even after you suggested that the culprits were more than one person."

"So...?"

“So they know who Hannibal’s accomplice is but despite the danger they’re protecting his identity. He(or she) is someone close to both of them, and I bet they aren’t the only ones he was involved with. In fact, he could be the key to catching Hannibal Lecter. ”

No one could pinpoint how long Hannibal had been at work, not even Sherlock. He could only speculate how many bodies he had piled up with every new identity he assumed. Hannibal may be his real name, but he had used it as an alias, just another face as he lived in America. Once he settled down in the quaint, unsuspecting town of Wolfstrap, he had begun to spin his web. He cast out his invisible net, and every strand doubled as a tripwire and a silken talon. Anyone unfortunate enough to stray into this deathtrap was instantly strung up and at his mercy. He could decide to turn them into a puppet, or his next meal.

Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schurr, Tobias Budge, Carson Nahn, James Gray, Beverly Catz, Sheldon Isley, Abel Gideon, Abigail Hobbs, Antony Dimmond, Rinaldo Pazzi, Cordell Demming, Mason Verger and Francis Dolarhyde…these were just a few of his deceased victims, who stood out because of the colourful nature of their murders. It was just a sliver of his bloody rap sheet, and many of them were still just alleged, including the string of missing people. Bedelia Du Maurier had been missing for weeks on end before her mutilated body was found, and Will Graham had been presumed dead when he disappeared at the same time as Hannibal’s violent escape. Only a handful of victims such as Miriam Lass, Jack Crawford, and Alana Bloom escaped with their lives, and none of them was too willing to recount the horrors they experienced while in Hannibal’s web.

And right at the center of this convoluted web was his accomplice.

John fidgeted in his seat when he saw the intense look on Sherlock’s face. The last time he saw that face, he had ended up on his knees next to his best friend’s corpse.

“You don’t think it could be Moriarty?”

Sherlock grinned and shook his head, “This isn’t his type of fun. Chaos, and the attention of a thousand terrified onlookers. That is what he always aims for. And when he isn’t working alone, he is always in charge… No, there is something quite different about this partnership.”

The two men were silent for a while as they contemplated. John had his perpetual clueless expression, while Sherlock’s rigid face betrayed his intricate mind, which was whirling with calculations and hypotheses as he tried to unravel the mystery with what little relevant information he had.

They took the first flight back to London. As the plane steadied at thirty nine thousand feet, Sherlock seemed to retreat into his mind palace. He brushed off all of John's attempts at casual conversation, and would always respond with grunts or monosyllables. Taking it as a hint to leave the intellectual to his thoughts, John opened up his laptop, and began a new entry in his blog. He used his index fingers to type at a pace so slow it almost looked painful. Despite the hum of the turbines, and the bustle of flight attendants and restless passengers, it was the soft 'click click' of John typing away that finally drew Sherlock from the confines of his virtual shelter. He craned his neck for a view of the screen, and frowned as he saw the title of the draft.

"Really,The Mourning Bride?"

John barely glanced up from his work as he replied, "Catchy don't you think?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes,"If you mean catchy as a cold, then yes."

There was a momentary lapse in their conversation, where the only sound was a steady stream of clicks, occasionally broken by an intimate pause, followed by more clicking. Sherlock looked away, fidgeting in his seat as he struggled to muster up the courage to say something he had been mentally rehearsing for weeks now. He put his hands together, raised them to his lips, and then pulled them apart as he reached up and ruffled his own hair. He wasn't paying attention to the clicks that had gone silent, and almost jumped when he looked back and realized that John had been looking at him with a perplexed expression on his face for who knows how long.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. John opened his mouth as if he was about to ask something, and then shook his head as he decided against it.

Instead, he said,"This all seems like quite the tragic love story for Bedelia." 

"A tragic love story?"

"Mourning the loss of your bridegroom at your own funeral."

Sherlock still didn't understand, but did not push for details, because his face was still burning with embarrassment. 

Only when they were in the cab, just a few blocks away from John and Mary's home, when the fog of emotion finally lifted, was when it hit him. He yelled at the driver to stop.  

"Sherlock, I know you've been avoiding having dinner with Mary and me, and I must say this time your escape plan isn't very creative." John protested. Sherlock, who already had one foot out the door, turned back to face John. His face was lit up with feverish excitement.

"She was his bride John and the dinner was their divorce, and then Hannibal eloped with another. All this time I thought it was a simple case of cohorts, but this is even bigger John, this is a romantic relationship, a courtship. They hunt together, kill together, feed together...they might even be in love."

"What? You mean like Bonnie and Clyde?"

"No. What, who are they? Never mind. What this means is that just like Bedelia the accomplice has to be someone who got too close to Hannibal, he could even have been one of his victims. He or she had to have been in close contact with Hannibal for quite some time to become this intimate...Sentimental psychopaths, John. Oh this is just brilliant-"

"Sherlock what in the world are you talking about? Wait where are you..." Sherlock hopped out and slammed the door shut. 

Sherlock spun back,"Don't you see? This is Hannibal's Achilles' heel! And once I find his new bride, they will be his downfall."John could barely hear him. He was already quite far away.

"At least tell me where you're going!" John cried.

He barely heard the reply as Sherlock rounded the corner.

"Sentiment, John. Sentiment!"

And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've done some writing but this is my first fan fiction ever(I kid you not) so I would love to hear what you all think. Comments, suggestions, corrections...  
> I will be switching between Johnlock and Hannigram as protagonists so fear not there shall be plenty of both and many other characters, ships and...maybe a bit of sin ;)  
> Due to the ravages of life I may not update often, but if y'all insist I might pull some all nighters.  
> That is all my fellow Nakama! Kwaheri and goodnight!


	2. Honey and Acid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal are finally enjoying their quiet PTWOTL life together...or are they...? *wink*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: Yourself Still by Phoria.
> 
> PS: I edited the story a teensy bit, changing the paragraph illustrating Will's Nightmare Stag dream from conditional tense to past tense(because it felt very weird and I suck at tenses in general) forgive me...X(

_The ocean writhed and foamed before ramming itself against the cliff side. It’s roar was like a thousand voices echoing up in culmination,_ _and each blow was a deafening crash. Its maws would open up with every chorus, and its cries would be carried up to the sky, the moon, and beyond, to Will; inviting him._

_Engulfed in awe, it took all his willpower to look away. Lifting his gaze, he was greeted by the sight of blood. It was black in the moonlight, blacker than the night that surrounded him. And he was covered in it. His eyes drifted to the equally bloody arms holding him, clinging to him, as if they were clinging to their master’s final breath. Hannibal. Will reached out to him in earnest, in desperate need, and his eyes drifted upwards, towards the sky. He wanted to see the stars one last time before everything changed. After this moment, they would never look the same again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t look beyond Hannibal’s face. His skin was flushed with elation and fatigue, his expression was overflowing with affection. The man had been called a psychopath, a callous, sadistic monster, and yet his eyes glimmered with fiery emotions not unlike those Will was experiencing, emotions they had only just begun to understand._

_But at the moment, all Will wanted to do was feel. With a sigh he finally gave in to Hannibal’s embrace, falling into him, and Hannibal pulled him close, putting his arms around him and resting his chin on Will’s head. In that moment, all the world faded out. There was no blood; no cliff; the stars vanished; the moon hid its face. Even the ocean’s roar had faded to a hushed whisper. The universe was void of all but the two of them, lovers in each other’s arms._

_Then the world flipped, and the thundering ocean rushed up to meet them as they plunged. And with a final lusty yell, the voices were silenced._

 

The sun was rising when Will Graham wandered into the kitchen. Hannibal illuminated by the morning light streaming in through the windows, was humming a classical tune as he crafted their brunch. Just beyond the French doors, out on the porch, a little coffee table had been set with an snowy white tablecloth, two polished wine glasses, and fine cutlery nestled in embroidered, red napkins. Two chairs lounged on either side of the table. Will smiled as he saw how they faced one another in silent conversation. Under the frail morning light, they had a timeless aura, as if they had been placed there at the beginning of time, and hadn’t been moved since then. He walked over to the chair on the left and sat down, just as Hannibal came out with a bottle of wine in one hand, and two plates balanced atop his other arm.

“It smells heavenly.”

“Omelette Arnold Bennet. A famous classic created for the writer during his stay at the Savoy hotel, where he wrote an entire novel,” Hannibal said, sliding the plates onto the table, “The story goes that the chefs perfected the omelette to such a degree, that Mr. Bennet would demand it be made for him anywhere he travelled, hence the name.”

He popped open the bottle of wine and poured out the precise amounts in practised motions. Will picked up his knife and fork, and paused to admire his omelette. It had been cooked to golden brown perfection and freshly garnished.  

“What’s in it?” he asked, slicing off a piece. Hannibal hung his apron on the back of his chair and sat down opposite Will.

“Smoked haddock, peppercorns, lemon zest, chives, parmesan…” he unwrapped his fork and knife, and laid out the napkin on his lap, “The ingredients are hardly special. It is when, and how, they are brought together that the omelette’s magnificent true form appears.”

“There’s no meat in this?”

“If there was you would already know.”

Will took a bite and chewed slowly, savouring the different flavours. He half closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. It tasted better than it looked.

Hannibal studied Will as he ate. After long hours under the Mediterranean sun, his usually pale skin had acquired a healthy tinge of gold. A faded scar on his cheek stood out as a memory of the past, one of many, many memories. Some of which Hannibal had carved into him with his own hands. Some of which, they shared. His curls had grown free of their neat haircut, and were now weaving their way down to his shoulders. A few locks looped behind his ears, and a forelock made its way over his eyebrows. For the past three years his sea green eyes had been brighter than ever, with an ecstatic spark that outshone any star. But today, they told a different story. There were bags under them, and his spark had been glazed over with the shadow of a dark emotion.

“If you sympathize with your food, you won’t be able to eat it later on. Believe me I’ve tried.” said Will, noticing that Hannibal hadn’t touched his breakfast. He had already purged his own plate of most of his omelette.

Hannibal tilted his head and gave Will a curious look, “You had another nightmare.”

The words made Will’s blood run cold. Damn, he should have known that Hannibal would bring it up sooner or later. He rolled the neck of his wine glass between his thumb and index finger as he formed an answer.

“It was less of a horrifying vision and more of an unexpected journey through the fanciful constructs of a feverish mind.” He joked.

A journey laced with honey and acid, Will omitted.

Hannibal paused with the end of his fork right above his omelette, and for a second Will almost believed that Hannibal had read his thoughts.

“Will, if we are going to do this, and we are, I need to trust you. And I do.”

Riddled with guilt, Will looked down at his empty plate, and wished he hadn’t eaten the omelette so fast.

“Do you trust me Will?”

Will sighed, turning his head away to look out at the sunrise. The cottage was at the edge of a middle aged wood with a decent river passing through it, where Will would go to fish from time to time. Occasionally, Hannibal would come along, he would help him craft the lures, and was catching on to the sport. He hadn’t actually caught anything yet though. The porch looked out onto a manicured front yard, which Hannibal would diligently groom in large portions of his spare time, and a few trees were stationed around in it like sentinels. Somewhere out there, Will surmised, was the ocean.

“I don’t know. Maybe it's the dreams I've been having,” he replied, finally returning Hannibal’s steady gaze, “But lately I’ve been burdened by an ever present sense of impending doom.”

 

Sometimes he would be deep in the nearby woods at night, other times back at Wolfstrap, in his old house. Once, he found himself back at the college in Baltimore, where he used to teach, at high noon. Each setting was different, but they were all the same dream. For one thing, every location would be completely abandoned of life, not even the titular chirps of birds could be heard.  The air would always be ripe with tension, so much that Will could have choked on it. He described it to Hannibal as that moment when the predator has its victim in its sights and is poised to strike. The entire jungle would go silent, as if waiting for the fatal blow with baited breath.

_What had been a random tree in the distance erupted into motion. It was a humanoid monster. An ominous, cloaked abomination leaping towards Will at an inhuman speed. Its frail, lanky frame moved with such speed and grace, it was as if it wasn’t touching the ground. But it was. Impossibly long legs emerged from the darkness underneath the creature’s cloak, extending forward and piercing the ground like a spider’s appendages. Each stride seemed to span seven leagues. The cloak itself fluttered behind it as it ran, like a black ocean in the wake of a speedboat. On its right, it held what looked like a long thin pole. Will couldn’t help but see it as a scythe with a hidden blade. It’s silhouette, black even in brightest day, would stretch toward the sky as it grew closer._

_Then it stopped, just a hundred yards from Will, in plain sight. Even when standing absolutely still, the creature vibrated with static. It’s cloak morphed and bristled like an angry, living shadow. It was still quite far away, but Will felt horribly exposed. It knew him; what he was; all his dearest secrets. The instinct to run washed over him, but he couldn’t even walk. His entire body was numb for some reason. It wasn’t quite fear. Whatever it was, it rendered him paralyzed. All he could do was watch as the monster raised its scythe, not high above its head but in front of its face, aligning the length it with where its eyes should have been. It paused for a moment, as if taking aim. It was then that Will realize that the scythe was actually a rifle, and the blade, was a bullet._

_Will followed the trajectory of the bullet. His heart twisted as he saw what it was aiming for. As far from Will as he was from the creature, a magnificent, midnight blue stag stood out in the open. Its head was up and its ears were raised. it's dark eyes were wide with fear, and the glistening feathers around its neck bristled with apprehension. But it was still unaware of the impending doom. Will wanted to warn it, to run towards it shouting and waving his arms so that it would run away, but he was under the dream’s spell, and could not find the words to prompt the entity to save itself._

_And with a loud bang the executioner swung his axe. The deer started, jerking forward into a gallop...but it was too late. Blood spurted from it's skewered neck, and a strangled groan escaped from it's throat as it tumbled. Will knew that he was too far away to hear it fall, but he did. The sound reverberated through him like the shockwaves of an atomic bomb, piercing his heart like a sword. He could feel the life seep out of it into the snow, as if it was his own. As it' took it's final breath, he inhaled with it, exhaled, and then let go._

And then he would wake. Sweaty, panting and shaking, he would check the clock, and it would never be later than one in the morning. After dreaming, he couldn’t fall asleep, unless Hannibal was sleeping peacefully beside him.

 

“Our brains form dreams to come to terms with what the conscious mind cannot,” Hannibal remarked, finally cutting into his omelette, “Sometimes, it is the voice of our subconscious manifested into virtual experiences, in order to tell us what our conscious selves refuse to admit.”

Oh Will  knew what he was afraid of. That man, that thing, it wanted to destroy what he and Hannibal had built for over three years. Three years ago, Will had pushed them both off the cliff to do the same, and failed. But it was because he had been afraid of something just like this. Now that he had become a pivot of Will’s existence, just the thought of losing him felt like barbed talons sinking into his chest.

 _“Can’t live with him. Can’t live without him.”_ Bedelia’s voice echoed through his mind.

He opened his mouth, and closed it again, but it was no use. The words failed him. How could he tell Hannibal that their time together was fated to come to a tragic end? The man had never been more content, sometimes happy. He smiled more, and would even occasionally overlook the trespasses of the rude, who he would have all previously killed, cooked, eaten and shared without hesitation. Will didn’t want to ruin it all with his paranoia. Yes that’s what it was, he would tell himself. Just the manifestations of irrational fear. And with that Will would withhold his suspicions.

Instead, he raised his hand and reached out for Hannibal. His fingers trembled as, for a moment, he expected to feel the cold hard glass of a prison cell. Instead, they made contact with Hannibal’s warm skin. He felt the muscle beneath swell as Hannibal’s jaw clenched. The rest of his face remained impassive, apart from his eyes, which glistened with anticipation. They gazed into each other’s eyes, beyond the tissue and light, and into each other’s souls. For a moment, Will was pulled back into another dream that he had had countless times, a dream of the past. He was at the edge of the abyss once again; about to jump. He looked into Hannibal’s eyes and savoured the surge of fiery emotion that he had felt every day but still craved. How could he let this go?

 

And that was when Chiyoh decided to come out onto the porch. 

 

The two men pulled away from each other as Chiyoh carried another chair to the table with one hand, a glass of wine in the other, and a newspaper under her arm.

“What did I miss?” her lilting voice was unusually coy. 

“Aren’t you running late?” Will retorted, glaring at her. She was supposed to be up and out by now, doing an errand for Hannibal or something.

She blinked at Will incomprehensively, “Good morning to you too Will,” she replied, pouring herself a glass of wine, “I’m surprised you could sleep at all, reading all those horrible articles.”

Will flinched under Hannibal’s questioning gaze. He glowered at Chiyoh, but it was no use. The damage had already been done. Chiyoh crossed her legs in a leisurely stance, looking down her glass at Will as she drank to her small victory.

“What article?” Hannibal asked.

“Nothing, just the occasional random article here and there.” Will muttered.

“I especially liked the one with, ‘…a crime undertaken by only the most cold blooded of killers…’ I think that one was The Times, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, so now that we’re in France I can’t read The Times?”

Hannibal looked back and forth between the two in silence. He was too curious to interrupt.

“It would be alright if they were just random articles, but your browser history says otherwise.”

“That’s it!” Will jumped to his feet. For weeks now she had been hounding him for no apparent reason. Questioning him. Patronizing him. Even looking through his personal belongings several times. Today, he was finally going to give her a piece of his mind.

Chiyoh set down her glass and gazed up at Will, “You’re not as clever as everyone says, otherwise you would remember the last time we fell out. Or are your wounds not deep enough yet?”

“Chiyoh!” Hannibal barely raised his voice, but it was said with such emphasis that they both backed down. Chiyoh leaned away, her cheeks flushing with unspent rage. Will sank into his chair, equally frustrated. Hannibal held back a smile; they looked so adorable. Like children pulled away from a passionate brawl with one another. He set down his cutlery.

“Now,” he said, looking at Chiyoh, and then at Will, “Would either of you care to enlighten me?”

Chiyoh started talking before Will could utter even a syllable. She knew that if she allowed Will to speak first, he would twist the truth until it was something else. Not a lie, but not quite the truth either. She also knew how to do it, of course, but it was quite obvious whose altered truth Hannibal would believe.

For the past three weeks Will had been sleuthing, searching for any current news on any or all of the trio. He had googled Hannibal multiple times and even Chiyoh once. He would buy newspapers and search for his own obituary, and read online articles where Hannibal was featured. In one city he had even asked around for any information regarding his companion. He had done it discreetly enough for Hannibal not to catch on, but Chiyoh did. And she had been furious. She had reprimanded him for compromising their safety, and once wondered out loud if he really did want he and Hannibal to be free together after all they had been through. Not once did Will try to defend himself, except that one time he muttered something along the lines of, “Jealous.” At least that’s what Chiyoh thought she had heard.

She made sure to throw Will a disapproving glance as she finished. But when she looked back at Hannibal he also had a disapproving expression on his face. And it was directed at her. She felt a surge of hot white anger as she realized that even if Will held up a giant sign with “Over here!” in bright red, Hannibal wouldn’t lift a finger at him. He was perfectly content, maybe even subdued, as long as Will was beside him. As she stood to leave, she slammed the newspaper down on the table with a dry smack.

“When you finally see that reality is at your doorstep,” her voice was bitter and condescending, “You know where to find me.”

Will couldn’t help but feel glad as Chiyoh stormed away. He looked down at the paper she had left behind. It was a celebrity tabloid. He skimmed through the first article; it was about a celebrity detective, of all things. As he continued to read, all those happy feelings drained away, and fear gripped him tightly around the throat. First he saw Bedelia’s name, then Hannibal’s, and then further down, it quoted an online article. Will didn’t even read the quote. His eyes were fixed on the name of the referenced article... 

The Mourning Bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Masalkheri!  
> Finally! The complete chapter 2. Sorry for the long wait, I just started university and over there, free time comes in tiny tidbits that you have to scrape off the pavement.  
> But have no fear! This story is far from over.  
> For those new to Hannibal, the 'Nightmare Stag' represented a lot of things in the show, and it was left to the viewers to interpret what was going on. Here, I used it to represent the Hannigram ship...or something...  
> Again, you are free to air your opinions. How do you like my foreshadowing? How do you think the story will go from here? Did I leave out a comma or something? ;)  
> Until next time, Nakama!
> 
> Your faithful fanfic writer,  
> MLycan.


	3. Anagnorisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock connects some dots, and gains an unwanted hunting partner.

Sherlock plopped another box down on the table and rummaged through its files for a few minutes, before closing it, pushing it aside and picking up another one. The boxes took up a third of the floor space in the room, some were stacked to half the height of the room. Reports, photographs, statements, and even recipes, anything Hannibal’s influence had touched, that could be gathered in short notice, was in these boxes. Most of it was useless jargon and even with new information and a second chance to look at them, the average person would need hours to find what they needed. Sherlock had nine minutes. It was more than enough because he knew what he was looking for.

He felt his heart skip as he opened up the box. Its files detailed failed operations to capture Hannibal, and more importantly, Francis Dolarhyde, the infamous Tooth Fairy. He had been deadly force to be reckon with, but a dullard at best, Sherlock concluded. How else would someone end up with such a ridiculous nickname. Francis had managed to evade the police for months, and then ended up getting himself killed when he tried to murder his own mentor, Hannibal. The act was instinctive, of a person who was a little less of a man, and more of a beast. Hannibal, on the other hand, had proved that he was something that surpassed even humanity. Therefore, The Tooth Fairy’s fall had been inevitable.

He opened up the file to a page with a printed map, showing the area the search party had scoured while searching for any signs of Hannibal and Will, after the carnage of Francis’ attack was discovered. He squinted at it as he mentally compared it to the photos of the crime scene. Investigators had assumed that Hannibal murdered the Tooth Fairy and Will Graham, disposing the latter’s body into the dark waters of the bluff or the surrounding woods. The pools of blood belonging to both victims were proof enough that Will had been fatally wounded. His body would have been almost impossible to hide with the nature of the woods and the adjacent sea. And if he had somehow survived the attack, he would have bled out before making it to the nearest busy road or town on his own, even if he took a car. How had he missed this? Sherlock thought. He frowned as he realised, that it probably happened when John was asking him to join him and Mary for dinner. He made a mental note to not let it happen again.

He had almost put his finger on what exactly he had missed when he heard a pair of familiar voices approaching outside, and bit back a foul curse. As if on cue, Sergeant Sally Donovan burst into the room. Her bushel of hair was almost standing on end with spite.

“Get out.” She snapped, glaring at Sherlock.

“Now, wait a minute,” Inspector Gregory Lestrade followed, “Let’s see if he’s found something first.”

He shot Sherlock an anxious glance. Sherlock immediately noted the bags under his eyes were heavier than usual, but his hair was neatly combed, and his clean, blue shirt and khaki pants had been ironed to a crisp. They were a few of the signs that someone of higher authority was breathing down his neck.

“Are the men in suits already here? It must be urgent if they’re on time for once.” Sherlock said, turning his attention away from the minor disturbance and back to the file.

“You’re not even supposed to be in here,” Donovan said. She walked over and slammed the file on the desk shut. Sherlock glared at her, but when he looked down at her obtrusive hand, he smirked.

“How long do you think it will take before he takes you back. Two or three hundred more texts should do it, don’t you think?”  
Donovan snatched her hand away as if the file had suddenly turned to hot iron. She clenched it at her side and gritted her teeth.

“Why you little-”

“We don’t have time for this!” Lestrade brushed his hand over his face in frustration, “Do you have something or not?”  
Donovan lowered her gaze and raised her unclenched hand to cover her eyes. Sherlock blinked, as if coming out of a trance. He opened up the file again.

“One minute and forty three seconds.”

“Donovan, let’s go. We’re stalling.”

He walked out, and Donovan followed without protest, closing the door behind her with a sharp thud.

One minute and forty one seconds later, Sherlock burst into the Lestrade’s office holding up the file like a victory flag.

“I found it!” he cried, his eyes shimmering with excitement. But he was met with disapproving looks. From the grim faces and stiff postures, it looked like he had just interrupted an argument between Lestrade, Donovan, and the visitors.

They were two FBI special agents, a grizzled veteran and his blonde partner with a prosthetic arm. Lestrade’s face instantly relaxed at the much needed distraction. Sherlock plopped the file down on Lestrade’s desk and shuffled the papers, spreading them out on the wooden surface.

“Ah, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, gesturing towards one of the agents, “This is-”

“I know who you are,” Sherlock said, his eyes flickering over the strangers, “I went through your files. Quite the lukewarm read. Disappointing, really.”

Jack Crawford couldn’t help but smirk. There was something familiar about this lanky little man’s impudent attitude.

“I’m afraid I have to cut your reading session short,” he said, “We’re here on orders to collect the evidence.”

“Ah yes, the price of overdue incompetence,” Sherlock droned, as if replying had become too much of an effort, “Now that you’re a grunt you can’t afford your own extra, parallel set of rules.”

Anger flashed across Jack’s face.

“What does that have anything to do with Hannibal?” he said, and his rising voice reverberated against the windows. The tone could only be that of someone two seconds away from hurling Sherlock out the nearest window. Lestrade recognized it because he had often used it himself.

“That’s for us to decide, because the murder took place in our jurisdiction.” Lestrade said, trying to steer the conversation.

“She was an American citizen.” Miriam Lass, the woman with the prosthetic arm, replied. Sherlock instantly caught the way she hardened her voice to hide its tremor.

“Even if you catch Hannibal, the moment he crossed over into England he was ours.” Donovan added.

“He is wanted in over seven states!” Jack said. His booming voice was somehow echoing through the room, and everyone went quiet at the sound.

“Maybe the only way to stop Hannibal,” Jack continued, “is to not pursue them at all.”

There it was again, Sherlock noted. The use of ‘them’. And now he finally knew why.

Silence descended over them all, and was finally broken by Sherlock.

“If you’re all done bickering,” he said, “I have something to show you.”

They reluctantly gathered around the desk to listen to Sherlock’s theory. When he was done, Miriam stared at him with wide eyed awe. Lestrade was impressed, but not as perturbed. Donovan rolled her eyes like someone who has seen the same magic trick a thousand times, while Jack acquired a new grim expression on his face.

“So what you’re saying,” Lestrade said, scratching the back of his head, “Is that Will Graham, one of the victims, after all the ghastly things done to him, has been Hannibal’s accomplice all along?”

“Well, maybe not all along. It’s less of a partnership than an…on-and-off, love-hate relationship,” he looked to Jack, “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

All eyes turned to Jack for an explanation. Instead, he shrugged and said, “Very perceptive of you. I guess now you’re going to use what you’ve found out about Will Graham to try and catch Hannibal.”

Sherlock laughed, “Try? Come now, have some faith.”

He picked up his scarf and jerked it into a knot around his neck as he headed towards the door.

“You can have your evidence back. I've got all I need.” he said before slipping out the door. Lestrade followed, gesturing to Donovan on his way out. Donovan sighed and began gathering up the documents Sherlock had scattered and abandoned.

“Boxes are through here.” She said, and exited through another doorway.

“Wait!” Miriam blurted, jerking forward to follow Sherlock, but a firm hand on her shoulder stopped her short. Taking a deep breath to smother the painful swell in her chest, she spun round to face him.

“All along…you knew about Will Graham. Is that why you don’t want to go after him?”  
Jack’s face clouded over with remorse. He sighed and said, “There is this pattern with Hannibal. Pazzi, you, me, Will Graham…Every time someone goes after Hannibal, more people suffer than are saved.”

“So we just let him keep murdering innocent people?”

“Three years on the run with no one on his tail, and how many victims has he had? One. Bedelia was practically a loose end who had it coming.”

“Someone like Hannibal never retires.” Miriam said, shrugging away his hold, “He has to feed someday. It doesn’t matter when, just that he will.”

Looking down at her, the determined look on her face and the fiery gleam of determination in her eyes that masked the anxiety behind them, Jack knew that he couldn’t stop her. She didn’t just want to bring Hannibal down, she wanted to bring herself up out of that dark pit in which Hannibal had caged her. Even after all these years, she was still down there, clawing at the walls, groping for her missing arm, and craving the sunlight.  
Jack held up his hands in submission.

“Alright,” he said, holding up his hands in submission, “You can keep an eye on…” he pulled a face at the thought of Sherlock, “…our detective friend. But if you don’t report back I had nothing to do with it.”

Miriam smiled as her faith in Jack was restored.

“Thank you Guru.”

She turned to leave.

“Miriam?”

She paused at the doorway.

“Be careful.”

“Yes sir.”

 

She made it just in time before Sherlock hailed a cab, and she shoved herself into the back seat next to him, much to Sherlock’s dismay.

“I didn’t ask for an escort,” he said.

“It’s on the house,” Miriam said with a nervous smile.

“What’s your name again?”

“I thought you read my file.”

“I did. It was too boring to remember.”

She opened her mouth to reply when her phone began to ring. As soon as she took it out Sherlock snatched it from her hands and answered it.

“Hey!” she cried, and Sherlock replied with a short, low ‘shh’ and a finger to his lips before turning all his attention away to the phone conversation.

* * *

 

“I was wondering when you would call, dear brother.”

“What in the hell are you up to this time Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice oozed with annoyance, “And why are neither of you answering your phones?”

“Not much. Going out for lunch with an FBI agent. How about you, how are you doing? Is the new diet working? By the way I got your text telling me to take a look at the Hannibal case. It’s quite the mystery, even for me.”

“You know very well that I didn’t send you that text.”

“Yes and I was very disappointed when I realized it. How many cases like this have you let slip by me?”

Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh, “I’m sending the address to your phone. For the record, I’m only doing this because we will finally be even. And, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“You should wear the silly hat more often. It’s starting to grow on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> First off I would just like to apologise a thousand times over for the impromptu extended hiatus. It's been crazy on my end and I've had no time for any hobbies. However I am determined to finish this one so there definetely will be an ending.
> 
> As always please give feedback it is always highly appreciated.  
> What would you like to see as the story progresses?
> 
> Until next time Nakama,  
> MLycan.


End file.
